Project Pallid (2 page)

“Ah,
yes,” Mr. Smithson continued. “Let’s not forget the Class of 2014!!!” He held
his mic in their direction and fed into their ridiculousness.

At
this, the entire section moved to its feet to stomp and fill the gym with
self-glorifying cheers.

“And
let’s stand together to welcome our Class of 2017!!!” Mr. Smithson spun his
outstretched arm to our corner of the arena, and we followed with a response to
rival the “SENIORS!” but booming, “BOOS” and jeers assaulted us from all angles
and overshadowed our cries.

“Now,
now,” Mr. Smithson scolded into his mic. “You were all freshmen once, and you
all know how it feels,” he said, softening their attack and quieting the crowd.
“And as Madison High Patriots, I expect each and every one of you to reach out
to our next generation and to make them feel welcome!” he proclaimed. The
response he got was begrudgingly mumbled as three-quarters of the school’s
population staged silent attacks on their newest recruits.

From
there, Mr. Smithson segued into the Core Values of Madison High, and he
attached each one back to the relationships within our classes and between our
grade levels. He overviewed highlights of the coming school year, and he
informed us of staff members who “moved on” during the summer. He welcomed new
ones (Ms. Lagasse was the one who threw herself at me in the entrance), and
finally, he provided us with our homeroom assignments, alphabetized by grade
and last name.

“We’ll
be dismissing you by grade level, and you’ll be asked to head directly to homeroom.
From there, you’ll each receive your schedules, lockers, and everything else
you’ll need to get the year started right!”

His
enthusiasm was unmatched, and I brushed past him on purpose when I left the gym
that day. He paid me no notice, but the stiff cotton of my new t-shirt brushed
by the shoulders of his wool suit. If enthusiasm truly was contagious, I’d
planned to catch as much as I could, and while it still existed in the world I
once knew.

September
3
^rd:

I
managed to find my homeroom pretty easily on day one: Room 113. It was a
straight shot down the hall from the gym, so getting there wasn’t much a
problem. But finding it was a small relief that quickly soured. Made entirely
of freshman, and much like our section of the gym, the majority of kids there
were already chumming it up with each other while a select few, myself
included, tried our hardest to not look awkwardly fresh and out of place.

Mrs.
Dorr, my homeroom and English teacher, greeted us from the front of the room
and provided us with her back-to-school packets: individualized, manila
envelopes she’d put together and packed full with all sorts of “useful
information”, including schedules, a map of the building, and locker
assignments. We shared our first bonding experience over a collective groan as
she relayed that they were
shared
locker assignments, and that we’d
already been assigned to a locker partner from one of the four freshman
homerooms.
 

The
revelation didn’t faze me because it wasn’t a big deal. What bothered me was
the fact that I didn’t get a packet at all. She walked the room as she spoke,
and she called out names while distributing her back-to-school, party favors.
But by the time she finished and dropped the bomb about our locker assignments,
she’d also reached the end of her stack. Back at the front and with one
envelope left in her hand, my name never got called. I sat empty-handed as
everyone else tore through envelopes and either celebrated, cursed at, or
searched out their new locker partner, based solely on a name and locker
number—neatly printed on, you guessed it: a cardstock, locker cut-out.

“Is
there anyone who didn’t receive a packet?” Mrs. Dorr asked, having reached the
end of her welcoming words.

I
raised my hand reluctantly. Even though I was there, in the center of the room,
I wondered if she’d even see me. As much as I needed her to, I wasn’t looking
forward to the extra attention it’d bring me.

“Good
morning!” Her eyes trained on me . “And what is your name, Sir?”

“Damian
Lawson.”

“Da
- mi - an - Law - son.” She repeated my name with stretched syllables while she
skimmed her clipboard.

“Nope.
I’ve got no Damian Lawson here. Hmmm … ”

I
looked to the faces around me, and I worried what everyone else might be
thinking: that I was the one who’d made the mistake, or that I’d stumbled into
the wrong room, or worse, the wrong school all together.

“Are
you
ssuurree
you’re Damian Lawson?” she teased. “You couldn’t be Matthew
Rodrick could you?” She waved her final envelope in the air.

“No,
Ma’am. I’m Damian Lawson. Least, last I checked.”

Some
of the kids around me snickered, and I couldn’t tell if they were laughing with
me, or at my unfortunate expense.

“Well
then, Mr. Lawson,” she addressed the class and me, more specifically. “We’re
dismissing homerooms to lockers now. Everyone: take the next ten minutes or so
to settle in, meet your new locker buddies, and be ready for first period bell
at 8:30. We’ll be starting classes a half hour behind schedule today. I’ll see
some of you in English, later on. For everyone else: have a wonderful, first
day here at Madison High!”

“Mr.
Lawson,” she turned her attention and spoke solely my way. “I’m going to
personally escort you to the guidance office, and we’ll see if we can’t get
this fixed-up, right away.” Her assuring words calmed some of my first day
jitters, but they were quickly replaced with a new and very real concern:
What
would I possibly say to her in the impending awkwardness of our lone walk down
the hall together?

“Thanks,
Mrs. Dorr,” I replied, uncomfortable with the amount of attention I’d already
received since stepping off the bus. I asked no more questions, and I needed no
additional persuasion. I rose to my feet, grabbed my bag, and stepped into the
shoes I’d dreaded most: Damian Lawson, forgotten freshman of Madison High.

I
remember sitting in the guidance office for a good fifteen or twenty minutes
before my counselor was free. The muffled sobbing from behind his closed door
kept me occupied for most of that time, but hard as I tried, I couldn’t make
out anything being said inside.

Eventually,
he emerged.

His
hand guided the shoulder of some redheaded girl who I looked at, but couldn’t
make more than a second of eye contact with—I was embarrassed by what I’d
overhead, because I shouldn’t have been listening.

But
I looked away out of timidness, too. I’d accidentally locked eyes with a girl
who was totally out of my league, and I was afraid she might think I was
ogling.

And
seconds later, when my heart regained steady rhythm, and I was able to turn
back to her, we locked eyes again. She hadn’t turned away, and she was glaring
right at me. Through me. Her expression said it all:
Turn your head. Shut
up. Don’t say a word about this.
I read her face loud and clear, and I did
exactly as she demanded.

With
her gone, it became my turn to enter Mr. Grayson’s Workshop of Tears.

“How
can I help you, young man?” he asked, and turned from the door to look down at
me, seated just outside his office.

“Ummmm
… ” I peeked around him and out the window as I spoke, hoping to catch one last
look at the redheaded girl before she disappeared from sight—driven by
mixed curiosity and intrigue at someone who might be feeling just as out of
place as I was—but she was already gone.

“Mrs.
Dorr brought me to see you. I’m supposed to be in her homeroom, but she didn’t
have me on her list and I need to get my schedule,” I replied, and turned my
full attention back to Mr. Grayson.

“Well,
that should be easy enough to clear up. Come on, step into my workshop!” he
proclaimed with the same first-day enthusiasm that’d overtaken the rest of
Madison High’s staff.

Ironic
choice of words
, I
thought.

“So,”
he began, once we got inside, “I have to say, I thought you were someone’s
little brother when I first saw you sitting there,” he laughed.

“Because
of my size?”

I’m
fully aware that I’m small. Not just short. Small. I’ve been about half as big
as the guys from my class for as long as I can remember, but Mom says that my
dad was that way, too—all through high school—right up until their
senior year when he shot up a foot. She always reminded me that guys in our
family were late bloomers—not something that helps when you’re starting
out in high school—but at least it provided some light at the end of the
tunnel.

“Yeah,
we’re late bloomers,” I repeated her credo to Mr. Grayson, but quickly wished
that I hadn’t. He laughed softly and under his breath at the simplicity of my
response, and I felt myself redden.

Turns
out, it was all just a simple oversight in the system. My name was there all
along. He printed out my schedule, my locker assignment, and he assured me that
the school’s attendance sheets would be updated the next morning. He also
cautioned that I wouldn’t be on anyone’s roster for the day, and that I’d have
to refer teachers back to him if they had any questions.

The
thought of all that first day interaction made me sick to my stomach.

I
just wanted to be left alone.

But
I didn’t understand what alone
really
felt like back then.

Not
like I do now—when alone has become my only option.

It’s
only when everything’s gone—when it’s ripped painfully away—that
you’re able to appreciate the small things you once took for granted: like
mixed-up schedules, awkward encounters, and first-day jitters.

Those
things we hate that remind us we’re alive.

September
3
^rd:

It
was later that afternoon when I ran into the redheaded girl again. I still
didn’t know her name then, but there she was: sitting opposite me in the
horseshoe arrangement of geometry class. The room was made mostly of
sophomores, but there were a few other grades sprinkled in, too. Freshmen with
high enough scores earned a seat in geometry, but we were a clear minority.
Based on the crowd around me, I figured I was the only one.

According
to first day protocol, a rigidly formal attendance was taken and, of course, my
name wasn’t included. Mr. Atkins agreeably added it to his roster without added
interrogation before proceeding with class introductions. Beginning on the
opposite side of the room and picking up momentum as it went, a wave of sharing
was set into motion. We were each asked to introduce ourselves by name, grade,
and to provide a couple interesting things that everyone might like to know
about us.

The
redheaded girl, who I couldn’t help but keep looking up at, was sixth to take
turn. I’d hardly heard a word anyone said, leading up to her. I needed to hear
her story.

“My
name’s Catee Laverdier, and I’m a freshman. My dad got a job transfer this
summer, and we just moved here from Baltimore.”

The
simplicity in which she said this makes me scoff, today. It was so
casual—like they’d somehow had a choice about their move to rural
nowhere.

“We’ve
only been in Madison for about a week,” her sharing continued, “so we’ve still
got a lot of unpacking to do. At first, I wasn’t really happy about moving here,
but it’s been really great so far. Plus, everyone seems cool here, so I’m
excited to get to know everyone better,” she spoke with feigned optimism.

I
came to two conclusions back then. First, she was a bit of a liar. I’d
overheard her guidance office meltdown just hours before, and if that’s what
she described as excitement, I would’ve rather been sad. Second, she was just
as intriguing to everyone else in the room as she was to me. When Catee
finished, the room gave her a response unlike anyone who’d shared before.
Everyone, even Mr. Atkins, was latched onto her every word, and they welcomed
her by name and with questions of their own when she finished.

And
when the swooning subsided, the sharing continued, and the wave surged closer
and closer to me. It would be my turn to talk soon, and I’d rehearsed my chosen
lines over and over to avoid stumbling my words. I wanted to make a good first
impression on the class, but more importantly, on Catee. I can’t explain why.
There were plenty of other pretty girls in school. I’d had classes with dozens
of them, even back in Platsville. Still, there was something about her I
couldn’t dismiss.

“Hey,
everyone,” I started softly. “My name’s Damian Lawson. I’m a freshman, and I
grew up in Platsville.” You could tell the Madison natives in the room: most of
them rolled their eyes, while some whispered quick exchanges to the kids beside
them.

“We
live sort of in the middle of nowhere, and my parents have a small farm. It’s
nothing big, mostly chickens, but we’ve got a garden and some other stuff,
too,” I admitted and continued while the class laughed at the naivety of my
share. I was too green to recognize it as one of the least cool things I
could’ve possibly disclosed on day one. In doing so, I’d officially branded myself
“Farm Boy”.